


Team Effort

by InNovaFertAnimus



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: (in terms of a honeypot mission), 3+1 Things, Coping, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Torture, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 08:00:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21949963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InNovaFertAnimus/pseuds/InNovaFertAnimus
Summary: Spying is hard work, draining work. Sometimes it takes the strength of several people to pull through it all.Or three times the team copes with the fallout of being spies on their own and one time they don't have to.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo/Gaby Teller
Comments: 18
Kudos: 167
Collections: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. Winter Holiday Gift Exchange 2019





	Team Effort

**Author's Note:**

  * For [takingoffmyshoes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/takingoffmyshoes/gifts).



> Merry Christmas Shoes!  
> I picked your fourth prompt and I hope you like your gift!  
> This is less plot-heavy than what I'm used to writing, so I hope it turned out well :D

i.

It’s one of those nights. Napoleon regrets taking the middle of the bed, even though it’s his favorite sleeping spot. Gaby is splayed half on top of him, almost possessive in the way her hands grab him tight even in her sleep. On his other side Illya’s head has found Napoleon’s shoulder, less intrusive than Gaby, but precious for the rarity. Napoleon should be relaxed, fighting sleep to stay in the moment just a little longer but slowly succumbing to sleep anyway.

He’s not.

His mind is caught in the odd space where racing thoughts and deep emptiness meet. Gaby’s soft snores break through the silence, both too quiet for him to focus on and not quiet enough that he can listen to the sounds of their apartment.

He knows it’s irrational. They’ve lived here inbetween missions for a few month, their security is scarily tight and on top of that Illya is still asleep next to him. If something were wrong, Illya would wake up within a second, reacting to something Napoleon can’t even begin to grasp. Napoleon has seen it a few times, icy blue eyes snapping open, alert as if he were never asleep in the first place, just before Illya jumps into action.

Turning his head slightly, Napoleon watches his partner, blond lashes resting gently against his cheeks. Definitely asleep. It’s fine. Nothing is wrong. His focus stays on Illya, trying to talk himself down for an endless few seconds, but it doesn’t help.

They all have their habits, rituals, whatever they want to call it. Gaby has to run her hands over their equipment; just seeing them in place is not enough. Illya cleans his weapons to the point of obsession. In moments like this Napoleon wishes he would have picked up something else along the way. Something more useful. Gaby touches their equipment, because unexpectedly they came up short once. Illya takes apart his weapons at every turn since one of their targets lost his hand trying to shoot them with a faulty gun. It makes sense. It’s not like Napoleon’s need to double check if their door is locked, if some planted a bomb under the couch, if someone’s hiding in the closet waiting to murder them in their sleep, when he perfectly knows they are safe. He already made his rounds before they went to bed.

He knows and it drives him crazy that it’s no use to him.

He takes a deep breath, not enough to wake his partners, but enough to make Illya’s brow furrow in his sleep. It doesn’t matter. Between him and Gaby there’s no way Napoleon can get out of bed without them noticing. He takes it as a challenge, even though he is doomed from the start.

He doesn’t even manage to untangle Gaby from him before Illya’s head rises from its place on his shoulder. Napoleon averts his eyes before their gazes can meet.

“Cowboy…?”

His voice is barely more than a mumble, low and rough from sleep, his accent bowing the vowels more than it does during the day. For all its softness, it’s enough to pull Gaby into wakefulness as well.

Her face scrunches up, before she pushes herself up using Napoleon’s chest for leverage.

“What’s going on?”

Napoleon feels more pinned by her eyes than her hands pressing into his chest. He forces the corners of his mouth up, hoping that the darkness helps to sell it.

“I was trying to let you sleep, but alas, I am a terrible spy.”

It’s just light enough for him to see the corners of Gaby’s mouth twitch up for a moment, before she catches his evasion.

“And you need to get up why?”

Napoleon can feel his fake smile slipping despite all his efforts. He knows he can’t lie. Not to her, not to Illya, who is watching them silently.

It’s not like he has to explain himself for them to catch on. His silence is enough. Illya’s hand is creeping up on his jaw, turning his face slightly into his direction. The kiss pressed to the corner of Napoleon’s eye is so tender it makes Napoleon ache, grave for more and regret waking Illya in the first place.

Gaby rolls off him with a small sigh, giving him enough room to finally sit up. He expects her to roll into the warm spot he’s left, curl up with Illya, instead she stretches and gets up before Napoleon has even thrown back his blankets. On Napoleon’s other side, Illya does the same.

Before Napoleon can even ask, Illya has a firm grasp on his biceps and pulls him to his feet.

“You need to sleep. Checking with three is faster, no?”

Napoleon doesn’t know what to say. There’s a tight feeling in his throat. He blames the lack of sleep and useless adrenaline.

“I don’t know, if you can help”, Napoleon says. He trusts his partners with his life, but even his own memory of locking the doors and double checking isn’t enough at this point.

Gaby shrugs and stifles a yawn with her arm.

“We can at least try? We wait up for you anyway.”

Napoleon suspected as much, but the definite knowledge does nothing to ease the regret of keeping his partners awake.

“Fine, let’s split up and see how this goes.”

It goes unexpectedly well. It figures, that he trusts his partners more than himself. Illya comes up empty and he feels a weight of his chest. Gaby gives him the one bug he planted himself to annoy Illya and his eyes nearly fall shut. Before he knows it, he finds himself back in bed, firmly boxed inbetween his partners. There’s a hand in his hair, too big to be Gaby’s, fingers running through the strands carefully.

He wants to thank them. Apologize in advance for when it’s going to happen again, for when their team efforts fail and he’s stuck going over locks and dark spots in their apartment over and over, but Gaby’s soft snores start against his back and lull him into sleep.

ii.

They’ve been keeping an eye on Gaby for a week now, a silent promise between Illya and him not to leave her alone, when it finally happens.

It’s only Napoleon’s luck that Illya is out for the night doing surveillance. He saw iit coming, when Gaby for once didn’t pour herself a nightcap, when she went to bed early, when she curled into one side of the bed in an obvious wish for space.

She’s not like them. When she wakes up from a nightmare she doesn’t thrash like Napoleon, doesn’t freeze like Illya. She wakes up calmly, gets up as if she’s getting a glass of water and just doesn’t come back. It makes it hard to spot. Sometimes they only realize something’s going on when they wake up without her.

Maybe he would have missed it this night as well, if he wasn’t waiting for it. It’s pitch black when Gaby gets up. Napoleon listens, forcing himself to stay awake and not drop off again instantly at the familiarity. He hears a faint clicking as Gaby turns on the light in their living room. It shines through the gap beneath the door, letting Napoleon get a glimpse of their alarm clock on their bedside table.

He gives her twenty minutes to come back to bed before he gets up himself.

He finds her perched on the windowsill, staring down onto the streets with her head leaning against the glass. She doesn’t look up when he approaches, but he knows she’s noticed him. He grabs a blanket from the couch in passing. Gaby doesn’t say anything when he wraps it around her shoulders, but one of her hands reaches up to pull it tighter. Silence passes between them. Napoleon sits down on the floor, leaning his back against the wall next to the window.

Napoleon already knows this is going to take some time, so he gets as comfortable as he can. There’s a chance this won’t go anywhere tonight. Pushing Gaby is and never has been a good idea. Napoleon remembers when he himself was so fiercely independent, before the CIA took him in. Nowadays his response to pressure is evasion; for Gaby it’s pushing back. Napoleon wants her to stay this way, unafraid and unbroken, so he waits and keeps her company.

Napoleon has already lost his sense of time to the dark hours of night when Gaby’s voice cuts through the silence.

“Why don’t I feel anything?”

The question is not something Napoleon expected, but he rolls with it.

“You do feel something. That’s why we’re here, aren’t we?”

She scoffs. At least she doesn’t sound as empty anymore.

“It’s not the same.”

Napoleon knows there’s more to come, so he waits. He wishes Illya was here. Illya’s silence is less oppressive, less expecting.

She turns a bit, so she’s sitting with her legs dangling down next to her. Napoleon raises his head a little to look up to her. Her eyes drill into his.

“I killed someone. I should feel something, but I don’t. And it scares me.” She says it like in Rome, when Napoleon listened in on her and Illya. There’s a challenge in her tone, daring him to question or taunt her, so he might miss the vulnerability. He doesn’t and she knows, but he stays silent. He’s not Illya. His assurance doesn’t come in too honest words or promises he’s going to die trying to keep. Gaby is similar to Napoleon in that way, which is sometimes both a blessing and a curse.

“What if I’m just like him?”

Napoleon frowns.

“Like who?”

“Rudi.”

The name still makes Napoleon’s stomach drop, even with all the time passing since then. He pushes down the memories of pain and helplessness and the lingering resentment. It’s harder to let go of that than he would like it to be. He doesn’t really blame Gaby for that. She didn’t know what kind of man her uncle was, but it stung to hear about how they planned Illya’s safe escape, while Napoleon was taken and tortured.

“If you’re scared of that, you’re nothing like him.”

She’s still staring at him, looking for any sign of doubt in Napoleon. There is none, but sometimes Gaby still has to make sure for herself.

She slips down from the windowsill and drops to the floor next to Napoleon, pressing herself against his side. When she offers him a bit of the blanket, he takes it gladly.

Napoleon knows that sleep is not anywhere on her horizon, so he stays with her, waiting for Illya to come home with breakfast, complain about the job and crash into their bed to catch up on sleep. He’ll know something is up when Napoleon and Gaby join him, but he won’t complain.

iii.

It’s nine a.m. when they hear the lock turn. Gaby is on her feet faster than him. They don’t run towards the front door, but only because they know from experience it won’t go over well.

Illya is standing in the doorway, as pristinely dressed as the moment he left, but the look on his face is enough for them to know he’s been successful. Even more than that is the hesitation to step into their apartment, like the threshold is an invisible barrier he cannot cross. Illya looks at Gaby, then at Napoleon, not quite meeting their eyes, as if waiting for permission.

If Illya had failed, he would be angry at himself, at whatever fouled his plans. If he got the intel through other means he would gloat about being the superior spy. Tonight it seems everything went according to plan. Catch the mark’s eye, get invited into their room, play hard to get but give in all the same, take the intel on the way out. Classic honey pot, no twists, no extra steps.

Napoleon has seen Illya do it, playing with his own prudish brand of innocence in a way that makes you want to push him, see if you can convince him to go with you anyway. Napoleon has seen the marks rush when Illya finally says yes, the eagerness that lets them forget why taking strangers to where their most valuable belongings also happen to be is a bad idea. Illya’s technique is flawless, Napoleon can admit that. Just the right amount of rejection and go-ahead to make the game interesting, a hint of strength and vulnerability to make the mark imagine.

It’s not Illya’s success rate that makes him last pick for honey pot angles. At times like this, Napoleon wishes it was, so they could simply scratch it from their list of options permanently.

Gaby takes another step towards him. “Welcome back, Illya.”

Illya gives a short nod and hesitates another second before entering the apartment, closing the door behind him silently.

He’s still not meeting their eyes. This is one of the really bad times, then.

Napoleon exchanges a glance with Gaby, then he steps around Illya, letting his hands brush along his shoulders. Illya flinches slightly at the contact. It takes the barest tug for Illya to leave his jacket in his hands, but he doesn’t lean away. Napoleon hopefully takes that as the right signal. He throws the Illya’s jacket haphazardly to the side, where it lands on a chair by pure luck, and winds his arms around Illya from behind. Pressing the side of his face just where Illya’s neck begins, Napoleon wishes for a split second to be the taller one, to be able to wrap Illya up into himself completely.

There’s a shiver running through Illya as he grabs Napoleon’s arms in front of his chest, not to throw them off but to squeeze them around him tighter. Gaby takes it as her cue to drape herself around his front, her hands reaching up into his hair, encouraging him to let go, slump forward until her forehead rests against his.

The way he touches them now feels like he’s scared of tainting them. The only thing they can do is show him, that he’s not, meet his hesitance with careless certainty.

It makes Gaby feel guilty, because for her seducing strangers still holds a thrill. Napoleon doesn’t know what it makes himself feel. He went through the thrill, went through the shame that has Illya so firmly in its grasp. He doubts it will ever leave Illya, not with how he grew up, not with how his handlers rubbed it in. Seducing someone for a mission mostly leaves Napoleon cold now, not much difference to picking a lock, maybe a little less exciting than that depending on the lock. Seeing Illya like this, like he’s not sure Gaby and Napoleon would reject him for something they’ve all done, makes something churn inside Napoleon. It’s not exactly pity, but something close to it. Maybe a special sort of regret for how different Illya’s life could have been, all of their lives.

They stay there for a little while, until the shivers die down.

+

They get called in early. The sun is barely up yet, when they enter the U.N.C.L.E. headquarters. It’s unscheduled, a call waking them after only two hours of sleep after they came back to London after their last mission. It’s always a bad sign. It’s worse today.

Illya’s finger’s been drumming continuously these last few days. Gaby’s temper has been short, her nails chipped and worn down from taking apart anything that crosses her way. It’s probably vain to think that Napoleon has been hiding his stress better than them. At least they stay silent when he swipes the watch of an unsuspecting colleague they pass in the corridor, just to see if he can and to keep his hands busy.

It’s not right to say their last mission was a disaster. They intercepted the right information, got a whole ring of criminals arrested and destroyed the drugs with the whole lab. They’ve been successful, but they’ve taken too many hits this time. There were too many people they had to leave behind to ensure their success, too many people getting hurt in the crossfire. There’s never been a mission that felt more like a failure to Napoleon, rubbing their limits into their faces almost too painfully.

Napoleon is used to working hard, not having any room to breathe between missions. It’s true that the CIA was worse than U.N.C.L.E., but that doesn’t mean he’s gotten bored. Still, there’s a sense of dread settling in his gut when Waverly’s office appears after the next corner. They pause in front of it, no one ready to face whatever will happen next.

Illya lets out a small sigh next to them and knocks. They are called in instantly. Illya pulls the door open, his breath catching just the tiniest bit. Napoleon has no time to wonder why, because as the door swings open further he finds both Oleg and Sanders in Waverly’s office.

The b´Brit is sitting behind his desk, his polite smile firmly in place.

“Ah, good morning, Ms. Teller, Mr. Solo, Mr. Kuryakin. Thank you for joining us on such short notice.”

None of them replies.

There can be only one reason why both of their old handlers are present. They are trying to split up the team. It’s always a threat that hung over both them, but now it’s getting real. He can’t help but turn to look at Illya. He doesn’t want him to go back, ever, but they are all barely holding on as It is. This is going to break him. Worrying about Illya is also a good distraction from the incoming crisis he’s facing himself.

If he goes back to the CIA, he’s never going to get out alive. He knows that.

The tension is heavy in the room, even though Waverly pretends he doesn’t notice it.

“I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding in the terms of the loan contract.”

And here it comes. Napoleon’s eyes stay on Illya, the heavy set of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders. He knows when he looks away, he’ll catch Sanders eyes and see his smug face and Napoleon’s going to lose it.

Gaby’s voice is as firm as ever. It makes Napoleon realize how bad he’s going to miss them, miss her.

“How so, Mr. Waverly? Excuse me for my directness, but is this such a pressing matter that we had to come in?”

“The lady is right with the directness,” Sanders says before Waverly even has the chance to answer. Hearing Sanders’ voice is enough to make Napoleon’s stomach drop. “I’m loaning out my agent for missions, not holidays.”

They should have seen this coming. In their debrief Waverly did say something about them getting some time off to recuperate. They should have known it wouldn’t work in their favor like everything about that damn last mission did.

Napoleon carefully shifts his gaze towards Gaby. He can see in her face that she’s going to snap. There’s no way this will get any worse, so he’s inclined to just let her.

This time, Waverly is faster. “Which is why I said, there was a misunderstanding.” His tone is still so firmly polite it makes Napoleon grit his teeth. “I was not quite clear on the terms of giving loaned agents time off before I’ve been planning the team’s work load for the next month. I apologize, my mistake. Apparently it is indeed within the rights of your original agencies to call you back, if you are not occupied in the foreseeable future.”

Napoleon doesn’t have to look to see Sanders’ satisfaction written out on his face. It figures that it would end like this, because being with U.N.C.L.E. was too good, too nice, even with everything their job brings.

“Well, something came up, I’m afraid. The world is a busy place after all.” With that, Waverly pulls out three thick folders from one of his drawers and holds them out. “Your new mission.” Gaby has the sense to walk further into the room to take them from him, because neither Napoleon nor Illya can move at the moment. Waverly’s demeanor doesn’t change as he turns to Sanders and Oleg. “I’m terribly sorry for your travel, gentlemen, but I did tell you on the phone this meeting is unnecessary. Now, would you mind giving us some space? My agents need to be briefed before they leave for the airport.”

There’s a beat of silence, before Sanders pointedly clears his throat. “Fine, another time then.” Napoleon knows the man well enough to know what’s hiding behind his blasé response, so he’s not surprised about the shoulder brushing his aggressively on Sanders’ way out.

Oleg looks almost amused by the ordeal as he follows. The man mumbles something in Russian when he passes Illya, too low for Napoleon to catch, but he sees the way Illya’s hand twitches.

The door falls shut behind them. There’s a few moments where they all stay frozen in place, which gives Napoleon some time to catch up on what just happened. He’s not very successful. The small sigh Waverly lets out behind his desk gives him at least something to focus on other than the turmoil in his head.

“Please excuse this little scene, why don’t you sit down?” Waverly says, gesturing towards the small sitting area in the corner of his office.

The Brit stays silent when all three of them squeeze onto the couch, sitting way too close for simple colleagues. It’s even more obvious when Napoleon stretches his arm out on the backrest, letting it rest behind Gaby to reach for Illya and both of his partners lean slightly into it. Waverly must know about them, but he never brings it up. A part of Napoleon is glad, but he’s never quite sure, if Waverly won’t use it against them after all. It’s not like their boss has given him any indication, but that’s always the problem in the spy business. Everything is suspicious, nothing is even more so.

Napoleon swallows and takes one of the dossiers from Gaby. It’s heavy, a promise of complications and close calls. At least they’re facing this together. He repeats this in his head, drowning out the voice that tells him this might be too much anyway.

Waverly takes one of the stuffed chairs in front of them, another folder in his hands.

“I want you all to know that I would have liked to give you at least the next two weeks off, maybe longer depending on the psych eval, but as you’ve seen, this is sadly not possible.”

Waverly opens his own dossier, a clear sign that the debrief is going to start. Napoleon opens his own. It’s fine. At least they are still together. They can do it. It’s going to be fine.

His eyes scan the first page of the dossier and it doesn’t make sense. There are a couple of addresses in different cities all over Europe and the Middle East, but no names, no object descriptions, no specific intelligence or skillsets required.

Looking up from the dossier, he sees Waverly still smiling, but it feels more real than his polite mask.

“These are the safe houses U.N.C.L.E. has acquired over the last few months. We still need to evaluate them.”

Gaby closes her dossier with an audible snap. “So we what, stay there for a week, report back if we liked the kitchen?”

Waverly shrugs and leans back a bit into his chair.

“That’s not entirely accurate, but in general rather true. Please hand in a list of which appliances are missing. Details are in the dossiers.”

Napoleon flips through it. Only then he notices the dossier is full of pictures of the houses, the neighborhoods, interior decorations, suggestions for which covers would work in those locations. At the end he finds a couple of preprinted forms for them to fill out.

“Your first stop is Paris, which is quite lovely this time of the year.”

“I hope you understand that this mission and its secrecy are of utter importance, neither the CIA nor the KGB have clearance to know where you are and what you do. To help hide the location of our safehouses of course.”

They go over some more details, but Napoleon tunes it out. If anyone notices, they don’t mind. He’s glad that he holds the dossier in one hand and has his other firmly tucked around his partners or else he’s sure they’d be shaking.

Next thing he knows, they are leaving Waverly’s office and on their way back to their shared apartment to pack. The car ride is silent, even Gaby’s beloved radio.

As soon as their own door is shut behind them, he’s grabbed by his arm and pulled against a hard chest. He can feel Gaby getting squished right next to him and while he is a bit surprised, he’s more than eager to comply, wrapping his arms around both of his partners in turn. Illya kisses Gaby first, always the gentleman, but it doesn’t make it less intense when their own lips meet.

The realization what they could have lost today crashes into him. He would have fallen, if he wasn’t so firmly wrapped up in the two people that mean the world to him. And isn’t that always the case.


End file.
